


i think we're gonna let it go (let it fall like snow)

by 26stars



Series: Fall Prompts 2020 [14]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Daisy/Jemma, F/F, Gen, Grieving, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Mourning, OG Bus Team - Freeform, Post-Canon, Remembering past character deaths, like a lot of them, memorial service
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:08:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27454021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/26stars/pseuds/26stars
Summary: "cause rain and leaves and snow and tears and stars, and that's not all my friends...they all fall with confidence and grace..."Daisy, Jemma, and May have lost plenty of people over the years. Instead of remembering each of those anniversaries alone, they pick one day and do it all together.For the Angst War 2020 and the fall prompt 'bioquake+memorial' (and also fills my femslash bingo square for 'grave'). Title from "Let It Fall" by Over the RhineFeels within.
Relationships: Jemma Simmons/Skye | Daisy Johnson, Melinda May & Jemma Simmons, Melinda May & Skye | Daisy Johnson
Series: Fall Prompts 2020 [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1931209
Comments: 15
Kudos: 37
Collections: Angst War 2020, Women of the MCU





	i think we're gonna let it go (let it fall like snow)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MayBeBrilliant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayBeBrilliant/gifts).



> So I just wrote this fic in a single sitting, which is something I haven't done in awhile. 
> 
> In other words, all mistakes are very much mine.
> 
> Hope you hate it.

There are some dates that Daisy will never forget—days when her world turned a little darker, lost a bit of its best for her. Those days pass every year, their arrivals and departures as reliable as winter’s, and on each of those days, she and Jemma hold each other a little tighter, grieving together rather than alone. It would be _too much_ if they did something like this on each black date on the calendar—the year would turn into a somber procession of heartbreak if they did this repeatedly, month after month, year after year.

So they picked one day.

One day that they got in the car and drove out to the coast. One day that they picked up custom-made wreaths of flowers (everything biodegradable) and packed them in the trunk with a bottle of wine and a small picnic lunch. One day that they knew they’d find May somewhere other than campus, leaning on the hood of her car out on an empty overlook that she would stake out in advance and send them coordinates for as they drove in.

One day to remember and let it all out.

Together.

This year, the weather is beautiful.

There’s a scattering of clouds that make the sky even more beautiful without dimming the sunshine for long, and the wind is not as strong as it has been on some days in the past. May is waiting for them right where she said she’d be, and Daisy smiles just at the sight of her, still wearing a leather jacket despite the warmth of the sunshine. She smiles as they pull up and park next to her, and once she’s out of the car, Daisy moves in to hug her without reservation or caution, a habit she’s still thrilled to have developed. Jemma takes her turn next, and they all linger close to each other in near silence when they part, all perfectly conscious of why they’re here but still not feeling the need to rush the moment.

It’s not like this day will move any faster than a crawl—the hardest days never do.

Daisy doesn’t know how many people May has had to glare away on their behalf in order to keep this place empty save for themselves, but Daisy is glad for her power either way. The overlook chosen for today has a wide, waist-high wall that blocks the traffic and cars from carelessly barreling off the cliff, but May has already laid out a fleece blanket over part of it, reserving their place for the next few hours. There’s a few feet of scrub grass and soil on the other side of the wall before the ground falls off in a cliff plunging a hundred or more feet down to the majestic Pacific ocean crashing below them. The tiny margin of space helps Daisy feel confident enough to hang her legs over the far side, holding Jemma’s hand tightly while her girlfriend keeps her legs pulled up on the wall, sitting cross-legged. May sits on her other side in the same position as Daisy, Jemma opens the picnic bag, and they all face the sea while passing snacks and food back and forth and catching up over the roar of the wind and waves.

Once the food and conversation dwindle, however, the three of them look at one another, and by wordless agreement they put the food away, moving to the trunk of Daisy’s car where the wreaths and wine are waiting. They pour three glasses, pick up a glass and wreath each, then return to the wall.

Daisy goes first.

“Thank you, Lincoln,” she says with her hand on the wreath of white and yellow daylilies—bright as sparks. “Thank you for what you did for me, for all of us.”

Jemma squeezes her hand. “Thank you, Lincoln, for saving Daisy.”

“Thank you,” May adds on her side.

Daisy takes a deep breath, pulls back her arm, and flings the wreath over the wall, sending a blast of her powers behind it to carry it all the way out to where it will hopefully be carried out to sea rather than tossed back against the cliffs. The three of them watch it fall, then raise their glasses in a toast to their fallen friend.

He wasn’t buried at sea. But a burial in space feels awfully similar—the same loss with no coordinates to give it.

Jemma goes next, picking up the wreath of deep blue larkspur.

“Thank you, Will, for saving me. For giving me hope when I ran out of it. For fighting to protect me even though…” She trails off, pursing her lips. Daisy slips an arm around her waist and finishes the thought.

“Thank you for helping Jemma make it back to us,” she says. “I’m sorry we couldn’t bring you back too. You deserved better. I’m sorry for how it ended.”

“Yeah,” May adds quietly. Like Daisy, she never met Will. But she still knows his significance in their story.

Jemma is still crying as she releases the wreath, but Daisy does most of the work on the toss, sending it flying out to sea.

May goes next, picking up the wreath of Black-Eyed Susan’s.

“Thank you, Trip, for all ways you protected us, fought for us, and brought out the best in us. Thank you for _being_ the best of us in so many ways.”

“Thank you for always making me smile, even when I didn’t want to,” Daisy says quietly, her eyes filling up—they almost always did, right about now. “Thank you for trying to protect me, even at the end.”

Jemma, now crying too hard to speak, just purses her lips and nods in agreement.

“I miss you still,” she whispers.

May doesn’t need any help hurling the wreath. Daisy still pushes it away from the wall when it lands on the water.

They take another drink.

Three men who stepped in front of them and made the ultimate sacrifice.

Three friends they never got to bury.

And sadly, the three of them are still not done.

Daisy goes to the car alone to fetch the rest of the wreaths, passing them out as she returns to the wall, one for each of them.

Once again, Daisy goes first.

“Thank you, Mom, for teaching me how to embrace being Inhuman,” she says, gently touching the deep purple calla lilies circling her mother’s wreath. “Thank you for showing me how to use my powers without being afraid. Thank you for giving me a vision of a world where being different didn’t have to mean being afraid. Thank you for a sister, even if it’s not how you planned for us to meet. I wish things had ended differently.”

Another splash, too far away to hear. Another drink.

Jemma picks up the final wreath of forget-me-nots. Her voice doesn’t wobble too much.

“Fitz. I know we still have you with us, but the friend that came with me from the Academy to the Bus to the stars…we lost you. Thank you for all the ways you helped me through those years. Thank you for the memories and arguments and ideas and encouragement and for never letting me feel alone. Thank you for fighting through time and space to bring me back and to get back to us.”

“Thank you for saving Robin and Polly,” Daisy adds.

“You did good, Fitz,” May murmurs.

Jemma throws the wreath. Daisy helps.

May doesn't say anything for a long minute, her fingertips gently caressing the petals of the assortment of white flowers on the final wreath. Asters, spray roses, bouvardia, and lily of the valley... 

"Thank you for being the best of me," she finally said, barely louder than the waves below. "I'm sorry for how it ended. You were a good man."

Daisy nods along, reminding herself for the thousandth time that his death wasn't her fault...

"Thank you for helping us through some dark times," Jemma adds on Daisy's other side. "Thank you for saving Daisy."

"Yeah," Daisy adds hoarsely, scrubbing her tears away with the heels of both hands. "I'm so sorry for what happened."

May abruptly flings the wreath into the sea, turning away and striding towards her car. Daisy knows not to follow her, so she just picks up her glass and toasts Andrew instead, allowing May to have her space for a moment.

They agreed to do this together...but crying in front of each other has yet to get easier. 

And she knows May will be back.

There's still one more thing to do.

For the final toast, May shifts to stand between them. Daisy puts an arm around her waist, and Jemma does the same from the other side.

They don’t say anything for Coulson.

Not because it doesn’t matter, but because it means to much. Five years down the road, it still seems impossible that he’s really gone, that he isn’t coming back this time, LMD or otherwise. It’s right, Daisy knows. He didn’t have a choice in his death or resurrections the first two times…she can’t fault him for wanting to make the choice to end his story on his terms.

And at the same time, she hates him for it.

The closest thing she had to a real dad, the man who never stopped trying to take care of her, even when she was the one leading in his place. The one who taught, trained, and coached her into the person she is today, the one who stuck his neck out for her because he believed in the person she was and the person she would be…

Daisy had grieved this loss once already, years before she, May, and Jemma started this tradition. After their team had dropped him and May off in Tahiti, they’d come back only a week later to pick up just one of them. Coulson had requested cremation out of concern for the GH-325 serum he suspected was still in his veins, so they’d honored his wishes. They’d stood on the shore of the little island and held a small service together, the loss still too fresh to say much about but needing to be acknowledged anyway…

Daisy still remembers how it felt to hold a handful of ashes over the waves. She’d opened her hand, literally let him go, felt the weight gradually disappear.

She didn’t expect she’d have to do it again.

LMD technology was too valuable to leave anywhere, even in a casket, so Fitz had given orders for the tech that Daisy had avoided hearing about. She had a feeling May knew what happened, but she chose not to ask. The first time she, Jemma, and May had added him to their annual ceremony, no one knew what to say.

They still hadn’t gotten much better at it, but the ritual was starting to feel comforting.

After a few minutes of silence, each of them no doubt lost in memories, May shifts between them, opening the bag of white flower petals that she'd been holding in her arms.

“Miss you, Phil,” she says quietly.

“Me too,” Jemma says, taking a handful as May offers the bag to her.

“Me three,” Daisy says, taking her own.

They wait for May, and when she starts releasing the petals, so do they. Daisy doesn’t help them along this time, allowing them to drift off on the wind, down to the sea, starting a new journey across the world. They reach for more and and more and release them together until the bag is empty, and after a few more minutes of silence, May sighs.

“I’m thankful for you both.”

Soft words like these aren’t a new thing from May anymore—her empathy powers and years with students have softened most of her edges as far as Daisy can see. But it still means the world to hear it, and she turns to wrap May in a proper hug.

“Same.”

“Of course,” Jemma says, adding herself to the embrace.

They stand there in the wind and sun until it feels right to end the moment, to back away from each other and pack up their things, discuss when they’ll see each other again and where…

Back in the car, Jemma pulls her into a final hug, kisses her lips, and whispers comfort until Daisy feels strong enough to sit up straight, exhale, and put the keys in the ignition. Once she's turned on the engine, Daisy uses the visor mirror to wipe away her smudged eye makeup, but before she closes the mirror, she spies a single petal clinging to her hair.

It’s hardly a miracle, but it still feels like a message.

_Still with you._

She puts the car in drive, rolls down the window, and lets the petal fly away as they leave.


End file.
